


No Language for Sentiment

by After_Baker_Street



Series: Back Together Again [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Flashbacks, Love, M/M, Post Reichenbach, References to Abuse, Sexual Content, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 19:57:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/After_Baker_Street/pseuds/After_Baker_Street
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As John says -</p><p>"This is the story of how I broke Sherlock Holmes, and how he put himself back together again."</p><p>TRIGGER WARNINGS: graphic depiction of sex, also includes flashback and depictions of violence, references to; trauma, drug use, emotional manipulation</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Language for Sentiment

 

 

>   
>  But if this goes wrong again, oh heaven forbid  
>  If this was how it was meant to fall...
> 
>  
> 
> Artwork by [Archia](http://archiaart.tumblr.com/)  
> 

Sand and silence.

_Wait, where am I?_

The sand isn’t white, it’s red and finds its way into your eyes, into the creases in your skin. More like dust. It moves beautifully in the wind, but you start to dread it after a while, those whorls of red.

Sun’s hot enough to melt boots to tarmac. Vague flash of holding my hands over my head, begging. A few words in Dari that I don’t know, then this terrible silence.

I’m down. I’m alone. Why? Not hurt, I don’t feel anything. It’s so dry, why is my mouth wet?

 _Oh._ Blood. It’s mine. Spit it out. _Hit in the mouth?_ Cough. Blood again. Why can’t I reach my mouth with my hand? Why isn’t my hand... _oh._

It’s not actually silent - that’s the rush of my own heart in my ears. Drowns out everything else. Every beat, a pulse of blood out, out of my shoulder and chest.

Pressure. Need to stop the bleeding. Can’t manage enough pressure with the opposite arm.

_No._

It’s too much. Too much blood. I know what it means.

They left me. They left me here, in the sand. Left me for dead. It was still dark when last I remember.

At the edges of sight - bodies. How? Too many. I know that broken face nearest mine. Is that Corliss? Is he breathing?

Then, strangely, Singh’s face blocking out that burning white sky. Seems like I’d remember glacial eyes in that dark skin.

Vision’s going. Not long now.

_Please, god._

“John?”

_Let me live._

A flash of dark, then white.

Sherlock?

Pressure, hard against my shoulders. Heat, ripping through scar. Feels on fire.

No.

He’s holding me. Holding me up, palms against my shoulders. I hear myself give a bark of pain. Curling into my screaming shoulder.

And the world goes bright again. It’s only been seconds. Sherlock’s got me propped up against the wall now, his hip leaning into my side. He’s in only a towel.

Shake my head, clear it a bit. My legs take my weight, so I lean against him.

“John?” He tilts his head forward just a bit, kisses my forehead. He knows where I went.

I need to sit down, so with my back pressed to the tile, I start to slide downwards. He follows, the towel sliding off him so that he’s sitting beside me, arms wrapped around me, bare bottom on the freezing tile.

“I’m sorry.” I say, it comes out as a gasp. “I’m sorry...that woman, your mother -”

“Shut up.” he whispers fondly into my hair. I’m considering putting my head between my knees, but his arms are around me.

“What a nightmare.” That nervous laugh must be mine, I hear it catch and carry in the bathroom.

“I know, I wanted you to see. It’s been awhile since I was alone with her. Seems I underestimated my...”

And the gates burst. Anger, worry. All of it. It floods me for a moment, I open my mouth to speak, look up at him. And I see the last few weeks of agony. I see a man without the language for this kind of emotion, for sentiment, trying to sort out how to speak. There is no logic to apply. And he is lost.

 _My treacherous face._ He can always read it. I blink my eyes too quickly. Try to blink back the wetness there. And I put it away, as I can. Soldier on, you know.

Whatever is broken in him shines like a beacon now, and it draws me near. Into the rocks, into the wild water.

I gather him to me, press him into my side, my forehead against cheek. Just for a moment. He gives a sound like a drowning man coming up for air.

I laugh, I can’t stop myself.

“What?” he calls, but there’s a laugh behind that as well.

Soon, I’m laughing hard. “Oh, god. This. Us. Look at us.” and I can’t stop the giggling, I try, bite the fleshy part of my hand. I know it’s just a stress reaction, but it keeps getting funnier. “You, starkers...”

He sits up straight, pulling away from me. A haughty look.

“Are you suggesting, John Watson, that I am underdressed?” An exaggerated flourish of his hands over his naked body. I go to one knee. A fully dressed, though damp, army captain and the world’s only consulting detective, totally naked, on the floor of a bathroom.

“No.” I stand. “I’m suggesting that if you don’t put on some clothes, you’ll freeze your bollocks off.”

A sniff behind me as he stands.

“For once, I’m inclined to agree with your diagnosis.” in his snottiest public school voice.

He puts on the same dressing gown from last night. “If you’ll stop laughing for one moment...” he says between splutters of his own snorts of laughter.

I want to; I can’t. If I stop laughing I know the sound of his bare feet on the slightly sticky spot that used to be a pool of blood will make me weep. Or shout something terrible at him.

“I’m famished.” I say as he steers me out of the room. He gives me his best “mere mortals” look but says “We’ll have them bring up dinner to your room. How’s that?”

Don’t be too kind, Sherlock. Not now, I couldn’t stand it.

I nod. Say nothing.

“And my...stash?” He says quietly, as if “stash” were something beautifully exotic and rare.

“Gone.” I say, firmer than I’d intended.

He nods. Sets his mouth in a line. “For the best.” he adds, but he seems to struggle to say the words.

*

I’ve tucked in, berated him a bit about eating. He makes a show of it for my benefit, tearing a bread roll to bits so that it makes piles of fluffy white snow on his plate. He’s slowed down, dopamine must be crashing. I give him a look but he takes a long pull on the glass of wine he’s poured himself.

It’s a testament to the utter weirdness of the day that I have nothing to say about the fact that we practically ordered room service. In a private home.

“Let’s go; let’s just get out of here. I don’t want to be here any longer.”

He looks at me, strangely incredulous, then says “Why? She’s gone, she won’t be back. Went back to London, I expect.”

“What? Why didn’t we just meet her there? Why, then, this whole show?” Irritation is gnawing at me. Maybe exhaustion, too. I’m used to the dreams, they come and go. But I haven’t had a flashback, not a real one anyway, in so long I can’t quite remember when the last one was.

My ordinary brain trying to protect itself against seeing Sherlock like that. I’m rattled and he’s curled up in his armchair like a sleepy cat, dressing gown sliding from one bare shoulder.

His eyes close, but he’s not sleeping. He’s blocking it out, blocking out the whole world. Retreating into a mind that’s breathlessly strong. It’s steel and granite and electricity and ice.

I want to comfort him, I don’t know how. He’s just been torn down by the woman he’s known longest in the world, who should love him best. And then he shot himself up with cocaine because she clouded his control of that spectacular brain. The thing he values above all else.

I put down my glass, kneel on the floor beside him. Rest my head against him, my arm around his back. Asking for nothing.

Be _still,_ together.

Just the sound of our breathing.

Before him, I felt dead for so long.

He rests his head against mine.

I’ve never felt more alive.

He tries to speak, stops. I’m burning. He’s freezing. Take his hand into mine. Long, pale fingers slide against mine. _Here, take my warmth, _I want to say. Take it all. _My heart’s on fire, there’s plenty more.___

The tinny tap of rain on the windows. I lean into him, eyes closed. He winds his hands in my hair. Breathes deep. His fingers trace circles on my scalp, down my neck. It’s like his fingers draw pleasure onto my skull. Turns towards me, slow. His cheek against my hair. His voice breathless and low.

“I’ve always been alone.”

 _Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._ Am I taking away his protection?

“No. No one should be alone.” I say, more sure of that than nearly anything else that’s happened tonight.

_I was so alone. And I owe you so much._

A rush of love nearly takes my breath away. Lift my head, meet his lips. Salt. I kiss silent tears from his cheeks. I know this place.

My fingers full of his damp hair, pulling him into me.

Breathe. His mouth tastes of wine and copper. A flush at his chest winds its way to his cheeks. His head falls back, into my hands and I stand. He lifts his chin, to keep my mouth on his.

A shuddering breath, sliding my cheek against his. He turns his face away, his long neck bare. Push him gently down into the chair, kneel again, this time knees around him. He breathes my name, hips rising to me. A growl low in his throat.

One of his hands untucks my shirt from my trousers, feels its way inside the warm pocket of air at my back. Feel my eyes widen at his cold hands. The other arm wrapped around my back, grabbing my shoulder, pulling me down to him. Eager hands.

Both of my hands on the sides of his long face, tips of my fingers buried in dark curls. Soft kisses, he gasps and reaches for more. Deny him and he gasps again, then a grunt, screwing his eyes tightly closed. I kiss him slow, along his jaw, hard along his neck. Bite the soft earlobe. The sweetly sour taste of his skin.

Oh.

“Oh.” He draws a long breath, shaking. A moan as I meet his lips, the flash of tongue against mine. My hands slide down his bare chest, pushing aside the dark dressing gown. Around his slim waist. So alive. I feel him jump, a hitch as I run my hands across all that silk skin, down to his hips.

That spark behind his eyes. The tumble of dark hair. Rush of his breath on my neck.

Oh, god, _yes._ Voracious, that look. In a flash his cold hands and skin are ablaze, I could burn myself.

“Love you.” I manage to whisper, as he buries his face in my neck. Breathe. There’s not enough air. I want to keep him here, with me. Not have him go...wherever he goes when we start to connect.

So I straighten up, stand in front of him, and he follows. Standing, him in my arms, me encircled in his arms. Draw him forward to that pillowy cloud of a bed. A rush of awkwardness as he peels my jumper from me, then his hands fumble on the buttons of my shirt. Impatient, I practically rip at my button and zip, then nearly tumble into the bed when I catch my ankle half-hooked in my trousers.

His laugh, bright as his blazing eyes. A shrug and his dressing gown is on the floor. _Oh, Sherlock._ Heart beating in my chest so hard I’m surprised I can’t hear it. He stands, looks me over, not critically but careful, thoughtful. With such softness.

Reach for him, I’ve always been a man of action, and my mind’s been made up so long. Run my fingers from his shoulder to his hand, pull his arm towards me. Turn his tortured forearm towards my face, brush my lips on the wicked red line there, and there. And there, where he searched for a vein with shaking hands. _No more,_ those gentle kisses say, no more of this. No more.

Whatever drove you to this, I would take on that suffering if I could.

Open my eyes, his head is tilted, he’s studying me. Blinking slowly. Hides his mouth with his other hand. No language for sentiment. But he’s searching for words. There are none.

The burst of sweetness at his mouth, thunder in his throat. Here, press close to me. Breathe out as I breathe in.

At the back of my thoughts - don’t go anywhere, Sherlock. Stay with me. Stay with me. And doubt. Is this right? Here? After all we’ve been through?

Then doubt is obliterated in a wave of pleasure - lying down, the hiss of skin on skin. The way he looks at me. As if we’re the only two people in the world.

The rocking of his hips, sharp hip bones grinding into me. The brush of his fingers across my chest, rounding to grasp hard on my shoulder. Pulling me in, close, closer to him.

The slow tempo of our bodies moving together, my cock against the soft skin of his taut belly. Soon, like a patch of wet silk with a dribble of fluid.

There isn’t enough air. Not enough air in the room. Not anywhere.

Him, pressed against me, hard and insistent. Breathless. Don’t go anywhere, Sherlock, don’t go.

“Please.” I whisper into his neck, licking there. Maybe biting, I nearly can’t stop. My hand, sliding down his chest, drawing wide circles, skimming the patch of dark hair. Looking up at him, asking for permission. He leans into my touch, and I ask “Is this okay?” slowly reaching.

A guttural sound, and he quickly moves his hand from my hip, and wraps it around my penis. Oh. Oh. Not what I was expecting, nearly finished just then from surprise and the pleasure that burns deep at the base of my spine. I take a deep ragged breath.

Pleasure. Blinding and bright. He glides his hand back, forth, then stops, to run his thumb across the the head of my cock, around the keenly sensitive frenulum. Oh, your face, I want to see your face while you touch me.

Eyes meet mine, a smirk of a smile. That mouth drives me to madness, I thrust hard, into his warm hand, hardly recognize the moan I hear as my own voice.

Soon, there is nothing else but his mouth on my lips, or on my neck, aggressive with kisses. With my other arm wrapped around him, I pull him close. His breathing, in shallow gasps. My hands, nearly of their own accord, grasp hard at the linens, one finds his other hand. Entwines his fingers in mine, squeezes hard. Hold my hand steady, presses it against his chest.

Oh no. No, oh god. “If you. don’t.” _stop, breathe. Not enough air._ “if you don’t. stop. I’m going to...” He wraps his leg around mine. No, oh, that look he’s giving me. It’s enough.

His mouth against mine, teeth against my tongue, he sucks my bottom lip. Something like a convulsion takes me, I throw my head back suddenly. This is dying. This is pleasure beyond what I should feel with just his hand. Slow, slow, teasingly slow, then quickly. Quickly enough to make the world flash white and then he takes me back down, slow, slow.

A breath. He presses his lips to mine, lightly, runs his tongue along the underside of my top lip. A bolt of electricity from my brain to my cock and. Please, please, _please._

A sudden jerk of my hips, _sorry_ I want to tell him, I can’t seem to stop. I try not to move, to let his hand stroke me but that thrashing is not under my control.

_Oh god._

Dark. Then blinding whiteness. Honey at the back of my throat. A sound unlike anything I have ever made. It seems to roll on, forever, as he continues to work his hand across my penis, slowly, slick with the immediate results of my pleasure.

“Sherlock, oh.” Pull him close again, take deep breaths. “I love you.” my voice ragged and low in his ear as I pull him tight to me. “That was...yes?” His voice a question. “Oh god, yes.” I sigh, still shaking with waves of blinding white.

Kiss him, again, to say what I cannot, to say what I cannot articulate, but lives in the body. And his kiss back is a perfect thing, full of want and breathtaking desire. New to me. This is all new to me, in its way. Everything, everything, everything in my life bisected by him. Before and after. I want all the after.

He responds to my hands whispering across his skin, breath against his neck. Draw out a long breath as I suck, hard, on his nipple. He arches his back, throws his head back. His hand digs into my back, below my shoulder blade.

Watch his eyes flicker back in his head as I kiss the patch of damp at his belly. It seems that my mouth knows better than my brain - it responds nearly without thought, my tongue drawing circles around the head of his penis. Hmm, a throb. A shaky sigh.

His hands, uncertain, trace my shoulder lightly. The taste of him, as I take him in past my lips. Soft, silk skin and taut. Complex tang of flavors, the slight smell of chlorine. One hand grasps my hair, long fingers sliding down the nape of my neck. Oh, oh, exquisitely sensitive.

My fingers in the tangle of dark hair at his testicles, rub my thumb gently in circles there. A part of my brain cries gleefully at his obvious pleasure. This exploration of his body, his eager, hesitant hands on me. So like me, but so different. Run my tongue roughly against his cock, bit of my teeth against him.

The sounds he’s making, oh god. Never, ever stop. My name, again and again as he throws his head against the pillow, the other hand making a fist, crushing the bed linens. My name, desperate this time, his voice torn in agony of pleasure. His hips rise to meet me. A sudden contraction, a throb against the roof of my mouth. His sudden silence. The rush of his ejaculate, my mouth filled with the taste of sour and brine. The urge to gag, swallow instead. Breathe.

His hand on my chin, drawing me up, up to him. He speaks, the words half-formed, tears sliding from the corners of his eyes.

“Oh, _John.”_

 

 

>   
>  Oh you watch me steady,  
>  You watch me with such a quiet sincerity  
>  And you hold me heavy,  
>  You hold me like I was born to be held  
>  -Ben Howard, "Soldiers"

 


End file.
